He Left His Dying Wife at the Wedding for His Mistress

The penthouse door clicked shut. Heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, pressing a cotton pad to my bloody knee.

My immune system was entirely shot. Stage four esophageal cancer meant a simple scrape could trigger a massive, lethal infection.

I hated the sting of the antiseptic. I hated the pain. I was terrified of it, actually.

"Celeste, I'm sorry." Adrian appeared in the doorway, loosening his silk tie.

Shadowed circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

"Today was an accident," he pleaded. "Please don't be mad at me, okay?"

I didn't answer. I dabbed the wound again, watching the cotton turn crimson.

He took a step toward the bathroom, then stopped. His gaze dropped to my leg.

"What happened?" he demanded, rushing to my side. "How did you get hurt? Why weren't you careful?"

I kept my eyes on my knee. I reached for the roll of gauze.

He grabbed the white mesh before my fingers could touch it.

I lifted my head and stared at him.

The great CEO of Blackwood Corp, the man who routinely dismantled investors in boardrooms, crouched before me like a guilty child.

His dark eyes brimmed with absolute sincerity. If the text message from Seraphina wasn't burned into my memory, I would have been fooled again.

"Adrian, let's get a divorce," I said. "I'm very tired."

I snatched the gauze from his hand and wrapped it around my leg.

He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around my waist. He squeezed me against his chest.

The sudden pressure ground directly into my raw knee.

A sharp gasp hissed through my teeth as I flinched, my nails digging into his shoulder.

He jerked back, releasing me instantly. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering in the air.

"Celeste, we are going to have so many more anniversaries," he pleaded, his voice thick. "Don't say the word divorce. Don't just throw it around. It hurts."

"Adrian, this afternoon was the last time I will ever let you keep your dignity." I looked straight into his eyes.

He froze. The color drained from his cheeks.

"Celeste, it isn't what you think," he stammered. "Really. The situation was just... it was too urgent. I had to rush over there. But I didn't dare tell you the truth. I was afraid you would misunderstand, I..."

He stumbled over the syllables. The man who orchestrated IPO roadshows in front of hundreds of people without blinking was stuttering.

I let out a dry, hollow laugh.

"What are you afraid of, Adrian?" I asked. "Am I that terrifying? Or are all of you just terrified that I'll bully Seraphina? And now you're afraid I'm going to bully you?"

He stood up, backing away toward the bathroom.

"You're too emotional right now," he muttered, refusing to meet my gaze. "I don't want to fight with you."

The bathroom door shut. The lock clicked.

I ignored him and walked straight into the study. The moment I closed the heavy oak door, my hands began to shake violently.

I collapsed onto the daybed. I stared up at the intricate plaster molding on the ceiling.

I had picked out that design myself, foolishly believing this Manhattan penthouse was my home.

My stomach churned. I bolted to the attached bathroom and leaned over the sink.

I gagged, spitting a mouthful of sour fluid into the porcelain basin.

My chest burned. The anxiety I'd had in college first triggered these vomiting spells.

Years of throwing up stomach acid had eroded my esophagus, directly causing the stage four cancer currently killing me. Adrian didn't know.

I rinsed my mouth, walked back to the daybed, and grabbed my phone.

Sleep was impossible anyway. I only ever managed three or four hours a night.

I dialed Jules.

"Did you kill him yet?" Jules asked on the first ring.

"I asked for a divorce." I traced a pattern on the bedsheet.

"Good. Did he sign the papers?"

"No. He hid in the bathroom." I rubbed my chest. "He said I was too emotional."

"Coward," Jules spat. "I knew something was wrong when he rushed out of the Plaza. What's the real emergency?"

"Seraphina."

Silence hung on the line. Then, Jules cursed. "Your cousin? The violinist?"

"She slit her wrists today," I said. "Margaret called me during the reception."

"And Adrian went to her?"

"He's always going to her, Jules. She's the ghost that haunts him. The one he never stopped choosing."

"I thought they broke up before you two even met."

"They did. But he never got over it." I squeezed my eyes shut. "We had this silent agreement to never bring up his painful past. I didn't know the past had a name. I didn't know the past was my cousin."

"When did you find out?"

"Our first New Year as a married couple. We went back to my parents' house."

"And she was there?"

"Yes. Adrian walked into the living room. He saw her sitting on the sofa. The stoic Blackwood CEO completely lost his composure. His hand shook so badly he nearly dropped his wine glass."

"Did you confront him?"

"I tried. I asked him about it later. He just cut me off. He told me the past was unpleasant, and talking about it would only ruin the mood."

"Celeste, that's a massive red flag."

"I know. But then Margaret sold her Manhattan apartment," I continued, my voice hollow. "She moved into a shack in the New Jersey countryside just to fund Seraphina's advanced violin studies at Juilliard."

"While you couldn't even afford high school tutoring," Jules scoffed.

"Margaret was so proud. She looked at Seraphina and said, 'I never thought our family would produce a real musician.'"

"That's sick, Celeste. You're her daughter too."

"Adrian was holding my hand right then." I looked down at my empty ring finger. "He squeezed my fingers and told me, 'In my eyes, my wife is the best.'"

"He played the good guy."

"He was the good guy. He gave me full access to his phone. He put my name on the Blackwood Corp equity stake. When my stomach acted up, he spent weeks learning how to cook."

"The beef ragù," Jules remembered.

"His beef ragù was the best thing I ever ate. We walked through Central Park holding hands every night. It was so simple. I thought we were safe."

"Until she failed at Juilliard."

"She didn't become a famous musician. She just came back with severe depression." I swallowed against the sharp pain in my throat. "Margaret brought her over to our apartment. Seraphina's arms were covered in razor scars. My mother was crying uncontrollably."

"What did Seraphina do?"

"She walked right up to me." I gripped the phone tighter. "She looked haggard. Completely broken. And she said, 'Celeste, please... let him go. He was mine first.'"

Jules gasped. "She actually said that to your face?"

"Yes."

"And what did Adrian do?"

Before I could answer Jules, a sharp knock rattled the study door.

"Celeste?" Adrian called from the hallway. "Open the door. Seraphina is awake, and she wants to talk to you."